


(Not) Playing By the Rules

by Shey



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe - Future, First Kiss, Getting Together, Good Peter Hale, M/M, Peter Hale is a Little Shit, Sex and Circuitry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25940677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shey/pseuds/Shey
Summary: In which Peter’s job interview technique is less than professional, and Stiles really,reallydoesn’t mind.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 68
Kudos: 596
Collections: Sex and Circuitry





	(Not) Playing By the Rules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Twisted_Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/gifts).



> For Twist, who said, "please write for the sex-bots collection!!!" I didn't manage to get it done for Steter Week, but I got close-ish! Thank you for all your hand-holding, beta-reading, and encouragement on all my fics! You're the best!! <3
> 
> For the Sex and Circuitry 'verse.
> 
> And extra thank yous to Green for your help and cheerleading on this one!

Peter is going to murder Alan Deaton.

Well, that would actually defeat the purpose. What he’s really going to do is forbid the man from cashing out his stock options and retiring to a remote cabin in the Canadian wilderness. What the hell is a robotics expert going to do surrounded by perma-frost? Build wolf bots?

Though, Deaton’s poor life-choices aren’t really the issue. The real issue is that he doesn’t have any sympathy for how his retirement is going to affect the rest of them. Namely, what the hell is Peter going to do without him? 

Finding a new head of R&D that can be trusted with HaleCorp’s most sensitive projects is a nightmare in and of itself. And Peter might be at the top of his field when it comes to artificial intelligence—DROID Magazine named him last year’s sexiest tech-genius for a reason—but a robotics expert he is not. Adding to the pressure, they’re only nine months out from the launch of the CRS-model—the first bot off the support-and-security line—and more than two weeks behind schedule. This is not the time for a regime change.

He looks over the resume for his last interview candidate of the week—one recommended by his soon-to-be-former department-head—and sighs. Too young. Too inexperienced. He tosses the folder down again and rubs his eyes with an aching hand. 

On Monday he’s going to tell Deaton his retirement notice has been declined, and remind him that Peter always gets what he wants.

Deaton will just have to stay at HaleCorp forever. 

  


* * *

  


Stiles Stilinski, Peter decides, has to be a bot. 

First of all, he’s too beautiful to be real. Long and lean, with mole-dotted, porcelain skin, and huge, honey-brown eyes—Peter wants to unwrap him from his bad suit and spend the evening taking him apart.

Second, his mind is a work of art—he answered Peter’s scripted question about what got him into the field with a nano-robotics lecture that Peter was tempted to take notes on. The tangent was a little...wild, and his thought process might be more Jackson Pollock than Leonardo da Vinci, but it’s art nonetheless.

And third, and most supportive of Peter’s hypothesis, he doesn’t seem to need oxygen. He’s been talking non-stop for fifteen minutes and has yet to pause for breath.

Peter wonders if the babbling is normal, job-interview nerves—it’s possible, he’s been told he’s an intimidating interviewer—or if the flushed cheeks and rapid pulse have something to do with the desire that’s been simmering between them since their eyes met. 

Peter sits back in his chair, fingers steepled, and hopes it’s the second one.

The boy glances at Peter’s bared forearms and licks his lips, then drags his gaze back up guiltily. 

Peter doesn’t fault him for looking—he’s more than aware of his own appeal. Normally he dresses sharply at the office, but it’s the tail end of a very long week. And if Peter’s version of casual-Friday—coat discarded and sleeves rolled back—shows off his muscular forearms to the pretty boy sitting across from him, all the better.

But as much fun as it would be to play with the lovely young thing, HaleCorp’s reputation comes first. Peter will keep this interview as professional as he’s able. 

(Which doesn’t mean he won’t spend the evening fantasizing about that mouth and all the wonderful ways he could occupy it.)

“I have to admit, Mr. Stilinski—”

“Stiles.” 

Peter raised an eyebrow, solely to make Stiles blush harder.

“Please call me Stiles. ‘Mr. Stilinski’ makes me look for my grandpa.” He gives a self-deprecating smile. 

“Not your father?” That’s probably overstepping, but Peter finds he doesn’t particularly care.

“My dad is, and always will be, ‘Sheriff Stilinski’. I don’t think _he_ would turn around if you called him mister.”

The law enforcement connection wasn’t obvious from Stiles’ resume, and Peter admits it only makes him more intrigued. “He’s local?”

“No, he’s back in my hometown. We’re close though. I visit as much as I can.”

That background could be useful, especially since they’re about to start beta-testing the CRS. Peter would love to get it into a law enforcement situation and see how it handles itself. On top of that, if Stiles has been around cops his whole life, he’ll probably have insight into the design that Peter hasn’t yet considered. Maybe this interview isn’t a complete waste of time after all.

“Call me Peter.” 

Stiles blinks at him, doe-eyed. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and in anyone else, Peter would call it flirting, but it seems to be an unconscious gesture, something to make him pause before speaking. “Really?”

Peter suppresses a smirk and doesn’t respond. He lets his gaze flick over the ill-fitting suit, imagining once again what it might be hiding. “I have to admit, I was surprised Alan recommended you for the position. The other candidates have ten plus years of experience. You have,” Peter glances at the resume laid out on his desk, though he doesn’t need to, “five.”

“I’m worth the risk,” Stiles blurts out, then bites his lip like he wants to take the words back.

Peter raises an eyebrow and makes a “go on” gesture. Stiles’ eyes are drawn to his hands again, tracking them avidly.

“I know Hale-bots,” he starts confidently. “I spent two years interning at Martin Robotics. I worked with the Doc— I mean, Dr. Deaton, all three summers in college, and with Marin Morell for my post-bacc. I’ve got ten papers published and a handful more waiting on peer-review. My dissertation was on the potential applications of advanced robotics in police departments. Doc says I’m the best—”

“Stiles.” Peter cuts him off with a smile. “I did read your resume.”

Stiles ducks his head and Peter has to bite down to keep his smile from turning to a leer. “As I was saying, I _was_ surprised Alan recommended you, but I’m starting to understand.” He leans forward and puts his elbows on the desk, his fingers laced together. “You have quite an array of skills. And excellent references.”

Stiles’ gaze moves to Peter’s arms again and his lips part like he has something to say but it’s stalled in his throat. Peter can’t help himself. He flexes just enough to make the muscles bulge.

Stiles shifts and draws in a shaky breath. “Yeah, I’m—” He pauses to swallow and clear his throat. “I’m more qualified than it looks on paper. I’ve been working on bots since I was a kid. Unofficially, I have just as much experience as the rest of them, it’s just a lot of it was kind of—under the table? Like, I interned with Martin Robotics when I was sixteen. And it wasn’t exactly a work-study, if you know what I mean.” He grins awkwardly and runs a hand through his hair, straightening in his seat. “Anyway, Dr. Deaton wouldn’t have suggested me if he didn’t think I was right for the position.” He meets Peter’s eyes again, expression going fierce with determination. “I would be a good fit for HaleCorp.”

Peter smirks—he can think of a few other things Stiles would be a good fit for. But he’ll have to set that aside, because he’s more than intrigued by Stiles, and now he has a few phone calls to make. He won’t even wait until Monday morning; it will be a pleasure to verbally spar with Lydia again. Maybe they can get drinks.

Peter asks the rest of his questions but resists letting the interview drag on. He may want to keep this boy for himself, but if this works out—and Peter is confident it will—Stiles is about to become his new head of R&D. Which means it doesn’t matter how badly Peter wants to bend him over the desk, he’s off-limits and should be sent on his way before the last of Peter’s self-control gives up the ghost.

He reaches across the desk to shake Stiles’ hand. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Stilinski,” he says. _Come home with me,_ he doesn’t.

“Yeah. Of course.” Stiles pushes up from his seat, touch lingering as he returns the handshake. “I appreciate you taking the time.” He heads for the door. “Oh,” he mentions over his shoulder. “You should get your hand looked at. Those A65 servos tend to degrade. They’ll start freezing up if you leave it much longer.”

He only gets the door open a few inches before Peter is behind him, super-humanly fast, palm out to slam it shut again. 

Stiles flails, spins, and backs into the wooden frame with a thunk. “What the _shit_?” he squawks.

Peter presses into his space to trap him, teeth bared, posture aggressive. “What do you know?”

Stiles shrinks back, his heart racing, color flooding his cheeks. “Oh my god. _Personal space_ , dude!”

Leaning close, Peter growls in his face. “What. Do. You. Know.”

“Um,” Stiles squeaks. “You’re a jackbot?” He groans as soon as the words leave his mouth. “Shit, sorry. Is that offensive? Because, you’re obviously _super_ advanced, like, way more than just a jackbot. Look at you, dude.” His hand-wavey gesture knocks against Peter’s bicep. “Gerard Argent would totally cream his pants if he got his slimy, old-man hands on you.” 

Peter lets out a disgusted huff, upper lip curling. He would rather burn again than let that sociopath near his coding. “I’m definitely more than a jackbot.”

The tips of Stiles’ ears are bright red and his heart is tripping in his chest. “I know.” He licks his lips but continues. “I’ve read everything you published on advanced AI theory and I watched all of your interviews, all the way back to your thesis defense at MIT. Not only are you every gay teenage boy’s walking wet-dream, but you’re really fucking smart too. You’re probably the smartest person I’ve ever met. And I know Lydia Martin.”

Peter takes a steadying breath and tries to decide if he’s more flattered than he is upset. Wet-dream comment aside, Stiles just blurted out a secret that could ruin everything. A secret that only three—now four—people are aware of.

“ _Probably_ the smartest?”

“Are you seriously fishing for compliments right now?” Stiles snorts and has the balls to roll his eyes. “Fine. Yes. You’re a big, powerful, billionaire _genius_. Do you have a Tony Stark fetish? Because Iron Man could give you a run for your money. You know, if he was real.” 

Stiles’ biometrics—babbling aside—are all reading honesty.

Peter finds that he’s already moved past flattered, and could probably describe what he’s feeling as “enamored”. Stiles is _good_ if he noticed the hitch in Peter’s metacarpal servos. He’s been meaning to speak to Deaton about it for weeks, but he’s been busy, and it wasn’t that bad. Yet Stiles saw it _and_ diagnosed the problem, without the advantage of knowing what Peter is. The boy is brilliant, engaging—gorgeous. Peter’s curiosity blends with desire and squeezes, like a fist in his chest.

Maybe he can salvage this situation in a way they’ll both benefit from. 

He touches two fingers under Stiles’ chin and tilts his face up. “That is _very_ privileged knowledge.”

“Of course it is.” Stiles blinks at him, cheeks still pink, but his shoulders are relaxing and his heart rate is slowing. He squirms a little under Peter’s scrutiny. “I mean, you’re the CEO of HaleCorp—which, obviously, you know already. But if it got out that you’re a bot, it would be a publicity nightmare. Stocks would tank, the board would have a melt-down.” He gives Peter a weak smirk. “I probably wouldn’t get a job offer.”

Peter stares into honey-brown eyes, trying to read his intent. Finally, he gives in and asks, “What do you want?”

“Want? What do most people want when they go to an interview?” Peter’s gaze flicks down to watch that pink tongue disappear between red-bitten lips.

“I mean in order to keep the knowledge of my— situation to yourself. What are your demands?”

Stiles’ mouth drops open and Peter ignores how enticing it is. He can’t let himself get distracted by that perfect cupid’s bow.

“I would _never_ out you like that.” Stiles is so outraged that Peter actually shifts back slightly. “What kind of asshole do you think I am?” His eyes narrow, his nostrils flare, and his hands come up to shove at Peter. His heartbeat is fast but steady. He’s still not lying. “What the fuck, Peter?”

Peter catches his wrists but lets the human push him back. He’s beautiful in his righteous anger, flushed and demanding and so god-damn earnest.

“That’s such _bullshit_. Just because you’re a bot doesn’t mean you aren’t a _person,_ ” Stiles snarls in Peter’s face.

Peter’s breath catches a little at that declaration. A person. It’s not the response he expects to his secret, but then, he imagines Stiles often does the unexpected. Using his hold and their momentum to keep Stiles close, Peter backs across the room until he’s able to lean against his desk. 

Still jabbing at Peter’s chest, Stiles stops between his feet. He doesn’t seem concerned with their proximity. “If someone tried to hurt you like that...it would. I would— I don’t even _know_. But it wouldn’t be pretty.” He hasn’t even noticed that he’s leaning in, far inside Peter’s space, his chest heaving, eyes blazing. “So, no. I don’t have any _fucking demands_ , because I would _never tell anyone_.”

Peter can’t help himself. He reaches up and cups Stiles’ jaw. In the moment of surprised stillness, he draws Stiles in for a careful, lingering kiss. 

Stiles’ shock at Peter’s actions, if it exists, is short-lived. He presses into the kiss with a desperate sound of want. His hands grip Peter’s shoulders and drag him closer. His tongue sneaks out and licks at the seam of Peter’s lips, asking for entrance. When it’s granted he goes easy and pliant, letting Peter support his weight as they explore, hot, slick, and so good that it makes Peter’s synthetic blood sing. They’re both panting when the kiss breaks—though, Peter technically doesn’t need to.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” Peter dips his head, mouthing along Stiles’ jaw, intent on sucking marks into all of that pale skin.

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

Peter laughs into his throat. “Trying?”

Stiles groans and shifts to pull away, but Peter has the advantage of strength—and Stiles isn’t fighting particularly hard. “No, no. Not cool.” He braces his hands against Peter’s chest but tilts his head to give Peter more access to his neck at the same time. “You’re gonna make me feel all weird and slimy. Like, are you manipulating me? Or am I taking advantage of you? Can you even say no at this point? Can I? I’m really not sure where the consent line falls here, dude.”

Peter hums in agreement and doesn’t slide his tongue out to taste Sties’ the way he wants to. Instead, he lifts his head and sighs. “It does seem impossibly complicated, doesn’t it?”

Staring at his hands, Stiles’ shoulders slump. “There’s really no way this can end well.” His chemosignals fill with regret.

Peter pulls back, enjoying the way Stiles sways closer, his sad gaze tracing over Peter’s face. “It’s a dilemma.” He encourages Stiles a little more upright, so he can see him without going cross-eyed. “On the one hand, you're magnificent and I want to hire you." He smirks when Stiles' eyes light up. "But I also want to bend you over my desk and make you forget how words work." 

Those two things aren’t exactly mutually exclusive—because Stiles wouldn’t be nearly as interesting if he didn’t have a brain behind his pretty face—but why make the debate more complex than it already is?

Stiles groans and sags like his legs don’t want to hold him. "I can’t even unpack how many moral and ethical violations there are in that statement." 

Peter doesn’t point out that they’re still pressed chest to chest and there is a beautifully hard cock digging into his thigh. Stiles isn’t wrong.

But also, Peter would not have gotten where he is if he wasn’t willing to take a few risks. 

"I like you, Stiles. Obviously. And with Deaton fucking off to the tundra, I’m going to need someone I can trust with my maintenance. Which would involve having access to my code." He slides his hands to slim hips, keeping Stiles close with gentle pressure, even as Stiles straightens to gape at him.

“Dude, you don’t even know me! That’s like telling me to take a look at your soul.” Stiles’ breath gets faster with distress. “You have no idea what I could do with that much power.”

“Sweetheart.” Peter files away the stutter in Stiles’ heartbeat at the endearment. “Did you forget, I’m a bot?”

Stiles glares at him. “Did you forget I’m not a fucking moron?”

Peter laughs. Every inappropriately snarky comeback just makes him like Stiles more. “Then you know I can tell when you lie.”

“Of course I—” He stalls, open-mouthed, and Peter is once again _so tempted_ by this boy. “Oh.”

“Yes, _oh_. I know when you’re lying, and you can read my intentions in my code.” Peter rubs his thumbs in the hollows of Stiles’ hips. “I think we could take a chance and see what happens.”

“That’s a lot of trust. A lot of risk. And it’s probably against all the rules.”

“You told me you’re worth the risk.” He squeezes Stiles encouragingly.

"Well." Stiles' mouth curves up as the tension goes out of him. His scent warms with pleasure and returning desire as he slides his arms to loop around Peter’s neck. "I _am_ worth it.”

Peter drags him in again and does his best to kiss the boy breathless. 

His best is very, _very_ good. 

When they eventually wind down to a series of soft pecks they’re both disheveled—Peter from Stiles’ hands in his hair, and Stiles from Peter’s quest to map out exactly what he feels like under that terrible suit.

Peter drops a final kiss on Stiles’ now beautifully swollen lips, chuckling at the dazed grin he gets in return. “You’re definitely worth it. And, I think you’ll find that _I’m_ a bit of a rule-breaker."

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed! Now, I will disappear back into longfic hell. Wish me luck!
> 
> I hope you're all staying safe and healthy. Come hang out with me on Tumblr. [shey-elizabeth](https://shey-elizabeth.tumblr.com/) I reblog lots of Steter and an increasing amount of Chris Argent being hot AF.


End file.
